


Mother

by Fetishes



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood and Gore, Demons, Incubus England, M/M, Mild Gore, Religious Content, Smut, not a/b/o, why do i always contain talk of god in my fics, why do i always write about bad parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:55:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27314410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fetishes/pseuds/Fetishes
Summary: Arthur, Arthur, Arthur… Peter preferred to call him mother.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Kudos: 33





	Mother

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: adult Peter, he's in his 30s.
> 
> another one so quick? happy Halloween!!!!!!!! gore and blood please be careful ,

It wasn't hard to keep his eyes on the road. Half the time, there was nothing to look at. All just dry, blistering desert, day and night. He'd met people who would disagree.  _ Just look to your left, _ they would joke. Whenever he did, he found his mother, twiddling his thumbs and twirling his hair. 

Peter didn't know where he was going, he only turned when his mother told him to. He would have thought his mother would be keen on sleeping throughout just a dull and lifeless trip, but his eyes studied the path ahead of them just as hard - if not more - than Peter's did. 

"Mother," Peter tried, earning a pleased and intrigued hum from beside him. He tempted a look at his mother. He was focused on the road still, though he fiddled with the laces on his right shoe (which was unconcernedly resting on Peter's dash) and held a gentle smile. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see, my love," he responded wistfully, Peter watched as he closed his eyes. 

They ended up stopping at a small rest station. It seemed to be a checkpoint of sorts, there were RVs and trailers parked in the lot and a small ranch off to the left. The station smelled like pot. 

At the counter was a young man, Peter thought him to be in his early twenties. He was tan and blonde, wearing a polo shirt that fit snug over his arms. (Mother's going to like this one, Peter thought.) 

"How can I help you?" He asked, Peter's eyes scanned over his name tag. His name was Jones. He leaned forward, eyes focusing on Peter and then to his mother, who was perusing the sweets aisle. Peter watched with a taste of familiarity as those blue eyes shifted from curiosity to lust. His mother had that effect on people. 

"I need to use your bathroom," Peter confessed, catching Jones' attention once more. He watched those eyes grow wide as his face went red, he must've realized he'd been caught. There was something telling Peter he ought to clarify - clarify what?  _ I don't mind you staring at him - we're not a couple, he's my mother.  _ Though, perhaps Jones didn't think they were a couple. His mother did have quite a youthful face, he looked much younger than Peter. Perhaps Jones believed his mother to be, in fact, his son? 

"It's just back there," Jones said meekly, pointing shakily towards a hallway just next to the freezer. Peter turned quickly and made his way over. While alone, he ripped up a few paper towels to release the tension of sitting in a silent car for eight hours, no food, no drink. If it were up to him, he'd drive he and his mother to the nearest airport and grab a flight back to London. His mother liked it in the states, though. 

They did not own a house, they only drove. They merely slept wherever his mother managed to get them. Peter wondered, briefly, where they would end up that night. Surely, his mother would not make him drive anymore. Not with his pallid face nor the bags steadily growing underneath his eyes. Hopefully his mother would take pity on him, even if they just slept in their car in the parking lot. 

However, the concern was wiped away at the sight of his mother leaning provocatively over the counter, flirting away with Jones. At the sight of him, Jones quickly pulled away and went red once more, and his mother turned to look as well. 

"Oh, father!" He said with a smile, "I was wondering where you got off to!"

Peter swallowed, he didn't answer. He turned and walked over to the lineup of canned soda. Nothing looked promising, so he sighed. 

"Alfred here was offering us a place to sleep tonight," just as Peter had thought. He picked up a bottle of water and a pack of beer. His mother preferred rum, but Peter wasn't going to enter the fridge for that. He returned to the counter to see Jones trying - and failing - to not give in to his mother's temptation. Peter looked at his mother expectantly. 

"Hmm?" He hummed, smiling and turning to look at the pack. "Freddie knows I'm not old enough to buy that, daddy," he said, giving a cheeky wink. His face shifted to one of faux humility at Peter's own look of disbelief. "It looks like I revealed too much!"

Peter sighed regardless and took out his own I.D. He eyed the date of birth for a moment. Had he really gotten that old? And, in comparison to his mother, who always looked the way he does, even when Peter was a child, was that really enough to fool this guy? 

"Err... yeah, if your dad's cool with it," Jones started, his focus turning to Peter for a moment before returning to his mother. "My cabin is just a few miles off. I can drive y'all over there."

His mother turned to him, though Peter knew he had no choice. They were going to stay at Jones' cabin, all Peter had to do was… well.

"Sure, thank you."

❧

"I've never done something like this before," Arthur laughed breezily, eyes glistening and lips kissed red. Alfred nearly panicked, he was  _ so hard  _ and Arthur was  _ so hot _ , but taking the virginity of someone while his father was in the room next to them while having the idea that he'd probably never see him again after the next morning was enough to make him begin pulling away. "Sex with an adult, I mean." 

"Ah," Alfred said, understanding. It wasn't… weird. He was twenty-two, that was like… the oldest a person could get in order for  _ having sex with a sixteen-year-old _ to not be weird. 

He was pulled quickly out of his thoughts by Arthur kissing him again. He was  _ really  _ good at kissing. His lips were so soft and they tasted like strawberry. Alfred bucked his hips into Arthur's when his lip was bitten softly, the other's tongue swiping out quickly to lick his bottom lip before slipping between his lips. Alfred took that moment to reciprocate, wrapping his hand, which was previously holding him up, around Arthur's waist. Arthur swung his leg over Alfred's hips, hands coming up to sandwich Alfred's cheeks between them. He tilted his head so he could kiss him harder. 

It was much too quick, Alfred thought as Arthur pulled away. He was firmly sat in Alfred's lap, and used that advantage to grind down onto Alfred's clothed dick. His breath left him in a punch; even through Alfred's pants he could feel how big he was. Alfred smiled crookedly at Arthur's face, which had gone from so confident to so surprised. 

Alfred was a good guy, he thought. He was pretty respectful and didn't bring up his dick size  _ that  _ often. However, it was something he was incredibly proud of. He felt his ego inflate when he heard Arthur's soft  _ Oh… Jesus…  _ at just  _ feeling  _ it against him. 

However, the shock was seemingly wiped clean away the moment Arthur reached down to really grab it, and Alfred kissed him again. It was a repeated motion of Alfred kissing his lips raw while Arthur fondled Alfred's dick through his jeans. Alfred moved his hands from Arthur's waist to the hem of his sweater, pulling it up eagerly to take it off him. 

Arthur was slim, and pretty pale. However, his chest was toned and firm, Alfred dug his face into the crook of Arthur's neck. He was a visually stimulated kind of guy - he was worried just the sight of Arthur's body would be enough to make him cum. Arthur pulled weakly at Alfred's shirt as Alfred made quick and sloppy work of pulling off Arthur's pants. 

"You don't have to work very hard," Arthur laughed, a tinge of embarrassment picking away at him. "I paid for the motel last night."

Alfred didn't quite know what that meant, but based on how soft Arthur's entrance was and how eager he was to push Alfred to the pillows so he could sink down onto Alfred's dick, he got the basic idea. 

When he was fully situated inside of Arthur, a thought came to him.  _ His dad is either completely clueless or has some of the worst parenting skills I've ever seen.  _ It was quickly dispelled by Arthur grinding his hips down, twitching and moaning as, Alfred assumed, his prostate was brushed. 

Arthur made slow work, bringing his hips forward and then pushing them back, twirling them in moderate circles. Alfred's face was red hot, he was nearly on the verge of begging. He parted his mouth, trying to find any words that would bring Arthur to pity him and  _ really  _ start moving, but Arthur sandwiched his cheeks between his hands once more. 

"Do you want to fuck me, Freddie?" He asked, bringing his face forward to press his forehead against Alfred's. He kissed the bridge of Alfred's nose. "Do you want to push me down and have your way with me? Do you want to make me scream? Do you want to make me cum, do you want to cum inside me?" 

Alfred was near boiling, for someone so young he sure knew how to press Alfred's buttons. Arthur swiveled his hips once more.

"What about your dad?" Alfred slurred slowly, trying to hold onto the vestiges of his self-control. 

Arthur smiled like Alfred asked the wrong question.

"He doesn't mind."

And so Alfred was off, flipping Arthur so he was underneath him and his head laid comfortably on his pillows. Arthur's hands remained on his face, but Alfred reached down to grab his hips. He pulled out quickly before slamming himself back inside. Arthur yelped, but quickly censored himself by pulling Alfred's face down to meet in a kiss. He wrapped his arms around Alfred's neck, nails raking across his shoulder blades into his shoulders. 

Alfred adjusted himself, hooking his arms underneath Arthur's knees to hoist them up, bringing them to as far as they would go so he could pound into him even harder. Arthur cried out, releasing Alfred from their kiss so he could wail out his pleasure. 

He moaned through gritted teeth, fingers pressed white-knuckledly against Alfred's skin, in Hope's of not making him bleed from his nails. His toes curled at the unforgiving pace Alfred had set, and he had trouble deciding if he should let his head lull back or if he should keep eye contact. He found, however, that even if he tried the latter, his eyes would roll back either way. And so he laid leisurely, letting Alfred set the pace. Though he preferred being an aggressive partner, it seemed Alfred preferred him to be the opposite. 

He released his hands from Alfred's skin, instead digging into the thin, scratchy sheets below them. Alfred leaned down, catching Arthur's lips with his own. His pace was still brutal, still sending Arthur reeling, and it didn't help when he shifted his hips, moving further up the bed to kiss Arthur deeper. His dick plunged right into Arthur's prostate, which made him release a strangled moan before he was begging Alfred to go faster.

❧

Peter was used to it, hearing his mother and whoever was offering them shelter that night wailing out their pleasure. He stared blankly at the wall across from him. The only light was that of the moon filtering through the blinds. 

"Arthur, Arthur, Arthur," Jones chanted, loud enough for Peter to hear. His mother moaned in response, and Peter heard the bed frame slam into the wall. He didn't flinch. His mother had that effect on people. 

_ Arthur, Arthur, Arthur…  _ Peter preferred to call him mother. Most of the people they met hadn't once realized his mother was exactly that. When they stood next to each other, it was impossible to think without prompt,  _ those two are related.  _ Perhaps it was because they weren't.

Peter didn't know how old his mother was. He didn't bother to ask, but with his increasing age, he felt it would be a good thing to know. His mother had always been youthful, perhaps it was because of what he was. 

The bed frame slammed into the wall again. Peter felt his blood boil. He was tired, he had driven for hours that day and he wanted some rest. Just as he tempted the thought of throwing his feet over the side of the bed, he heard his mother and his companion finish loudly, as well as the silence that followed after and so he tucked himself back into his bed.

The next morning, he quickly pulled himself out of bed and into the room next to his. Perhaps he caught his mother before he could really get into it.

Peter knew of what his mother would do to his partner's the moment they finished, or the next day. He knew his mother was tired from the night before, he must've fallen right asleep. 

He was right. His mother was sat up, though. Not asleep, like he had thought he’d be.

“Good morning, my darling,” he had said in a gentle way. He turned towards Peter, his hair was red, his eyes were acid green, his smile was ear-splitting. Peter walked towards him and collapsed in his grasp. “How was your sleep?”

“I assume you’re doing it again today?” Peter whispered. The way his mother’s hand gently met his hair immediately following made him feel like a child. Though his face turned red, he situated his face into the crook of his mother’s neck. He felt his mother’s smile press against his temple.

“I won’t, Peter,” he said absolutely. Peter felt a twinge of shock at the confession and looked up to see if he was joking. His mother laughed softly and kissed his forehead. “I’ve been rather selfish these past months, I noticed how tired you were yesterday.”

His mother looked out the window once more, His eyes dilating all cat-like, pupils growing wide and black. 

“I haven’t needed to eat as much as I have,” his mother confessed again, laughing nervously. “It was my own greed that drove me to make you take me all over so I could feed off men I didn’t need to.”

He turned to Jones, who was still asleep. He brushed his long, gruesome fingernail underneath Jones’ eye. Peter leaned up to look out the window. It was snowing, it must’ve snowed throughout the night. The ground was coated white. 

“Shame,” his mother spoke again, “I think I would’ve really enjoyed this one.”

The first time Peter saw his mother feeding was when he was eight years old. He had just gotten home from school, and he had gotten curious about his mother’s whereabouts. He took a peek into his room, where he found him bent over a man who, at the time, seemed quite old (but was probably in his mid-twenties) with long, blonde hair, using his nails to hold open the skin of the man’s abdomen while he chewed ravenously at his heart. 

He had to chase Peter around the house for thirty minutes before he convinced him he did not kill the man. Peter had to see it to believe it, so he watched shakily as his mother helped the man out of his bedroom to show Peter he was alright. The man introduced himself as Francis, but his mother sent him away quickly.

_ God offers them to me,  _ he explained, running his fingers through Peter’s hair.  _ Those who are impure and doomed for hell, he gives them to me so I can devour their evil and send them to heaven, they do not die, they’re destined for life, eternal. Francis will no longer feel the need to go against his sacred vow to his wife nor his children, he will return to the sanctity of heaven and their palace. _

Peter thought that was the case for all he fed off of. But, one night, the howling from his mother’s room was pained and terrified. When he went to inspect, his mother was desperately trying to calm his next meal, shushing him and assuring him God had a special place for him in heaven. Peter found out the man was not impure, that he had no evil thoughts. His mother had gotten weak because God had no one to offer him.

“Alfred is impure,” his mother said woefully, pressing his ear against Jones’ chest. His fleshy wings shielded the rising sun from shining into Jones’ eyes, his tail flicking around happily. “But I think I want this one to remain with me. I’m quite fond of him.”

At that moment, Alfred stirred, reaching up to rub the sleep from his eyes. Peter swiftly stood to exit the room, but not before watching his mother’s head twitch to one side as he tried to hide his features from his companion.

“Good morning, darlin’,” Jones greeted. The rest was cut from Peter’s field of hearing as he escaped to his own room.

He wondered where he and his mother would end up that night.

**Author's Note:**

> Some clarification if I wasn't clear enough: Peter and Arthur aren't actually related, even though Peter really does see Arthur as his mother. Perhaps, one day, I'll write an origin story of sorts, but in the meantime I'll explain here:  
> Arthur took Peter from an unstable living arrangement when Peter was (around) one year old. He wasn't being abused, but his real mother had him when she was in her teens and because of her religious household she was thrown out. She had no help from Peter's father and so she was alone on the streets, and had nowhere else to go. For her own safety and Peter's, Arthur offered to take him off her hands while she got herself back together. He said he was doing it on behalf of God, who felt appalled at her family using his name to justify throwing her out.  
> She ended up not taking Peter back when she found herself in that position, mostly because she had found someone else she was going to marry and Peter was nearly five at that point.
> 
> also!!! the reason Alfred is impure is bc he thinks having sex w a sixteen y/o is cool!!!!!!! he's an adult it's not cool!!! even though Arthur isn't sixteen, the reason Alfred is so easily persuaded into taking him home and having sex w him is bc he's hot and young!!!! gross!!


End file.
